


You Should See Them In Practise

by redfiona



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: comment_fic, M/M, Post - Deathly Hallows, Rough Sex, Unsafe Sex, too much quidditch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-02
Updated: 2011-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:32:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redfiona/pseuds/redfiona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Violence is foreplay and bruises are confessions of love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Should See Them In Practise

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a comment_fic prompt. Set post-books.

He doesn't see Marcus at the Battle of Hogwarts. Oliver wasn't expecting to see him on their side, but he doesn't see him on the other side either, and he finds that makes him happy. It doesn't help Marcus after the war, when he's an out of work Slytherin with what are probably Ts in his OWLs. So when Viktor Krum, who shakes Oliver's hand like they're brothers or something, which is amazing (his Mum doesn't get how he can be so blasé about knowing Harry Potter, and yet so excited about know Viktor Krum, but bless her, that's because she doesn't get quidditch, not at all), is talking to him at probably Charlie's wedding about how the Vultures desperately need a chaser, Oliver mentions that he knows of a half-decent one who's not got a team. It's not like he's helping the enemy, 'cause the Vultures aren't in their league, and unless they're drawn against each other in the Euros it's not like it'll ever harm United. 'But', and he makes sure to tell Krum this, 'don't ever tell Flint I suggested him.' He's reasonably sure that Viktor doesn't, but it doesn't stop his good deed blowing up in his face, like a blast-ended skrewt.

Because he's only a fringe player, he's probably the last to hear when United get a new reserve chaser, and he's definitely the last to know that it's Flint, back from his spell in Bulgaria, the Vultures having gotten over their injury crisis.

They avoid each other. Just because they're on the same team now doesn't mean they like each other. Or even tolerate each other. Reserve games are normally okay, because they have to play together, and not against each other, and they're not near each other, with Flint being right at the other end of the pitch from him. They can cope with that. Distance quells the worst of their tendencies, and they behave.

Of course, that's when some genius in the coaching squad decides that they ought to play beaters and keeper versus chasers, with the seeker practising on the other pitch.

It takes five minutes before the referee has to separate them and by the end of the practise Oliver's bruises have bruises.

He's under the shower, working out the worst of the knots in his muscles, when the door shuts. It doesn't slam, but he knows who it is without looking.

Oliver steps forward and opens his eyes.

Time has not helped any of Flint's features, the ears and teeth still stick out, but he's filled out, a bit, all sinew and muscle. Oliver's eyes move down Flint's chest, to where flesh meet the deep blue training vest. He can see a fading line there. Flint still has the scar Oliver gave him that last year at Hogwarts. Something inside Oliver tightens. He didn't know Marcus still had that scar.

"I said I'd keep it till you had a matching one." Flint took his vest off, hands crossing over his head. Then his hands went to his breeches.

Oliver's mouth goes dry because he knows where this is going, he thinks of all the times they fought, all the times when someone, normally one of the twins, wondered why he didn't just hex Flint into next week and he found himself unable to explain why it was just more satisfying to hit him.

And Flint gave as good as he got, they'd both ended up in the hospital wing far more times than anyone else, even taking sporting injuries into account.

Flint doesn't give Oliver even a second's warning before punching him straight in the side, far too close to his left kidney. Oliver crumpled, and Flint pushed him back against the shower wall. Flint's hand finds its way down to Oliver's hip; where there's already a bruise forming from the body-check he got from Jones during the practise. It says everything about Oliver; mostly that he's just as messed up as Flint, that he takes Marcus's hand and presses it in harder against the bruise.

Their mouths clash, knocking into each other like beater's bats to bludgers, as they slip and slide over each other, desperately trying to grab at each other. Oliver has just enough of his wits left to cast a locking spell. He didn't want a repeat of the time Alicia walked in on them. Bless her, she never told a single soul, which he was grateful for, since he knew that knocking off the Slytherin captain was not the kind of thing the Gryffindor captain ought to be doing. It wasn't his fault that Marcus remained the only person he'd ever met who'd ever given him what he wanted, when it came to something this. Like right now. Most people would have avoided that bruise, or, if Oliver had said 'please', would have poked at it gingerly, but Marcus really went for it, palm heel pushing in.

Of course, it'd never do to let Marcus have it all his own way. Oliver knew his grasping was going to leave marks, deep scratches he hoped, the kind of thing that hurt when sweat got into them.

Flint grabs him by the throat, thumb right into Oliver's windpipe, so Oliver slammed down on Marcus's elbow. There were an awful lot of flying limbs, scratching and biting until they fit against each other, like cogs in clockwork.

In between the slowly fading adrenaline rush from the match, and the second spike just now, there's nothing neat or tidy, or slow or particularly long-lasting about it.

The next time Oliver is entirely with it, Marcus is similarly spent and lying half on top of him, right leg between Oliver's thighs. They're going to catch a cold from the tiles, not to mention they both need another wash.

Oliver shook himself free and started the shower again. The kick he aimed at Marcus's arse was somewhere between a love-tap and something that would be sore afterwards. He's washing himself when Marcus gets up. Marcus grabs his head and forces him into a kiss. It would have been a hard tug on his hair if he'd grown it out. Oliver starts to wonder what he'd look like with longer hair.

As the season progresses, Oliver supposes he gets used to Flint being there, and he even gets to play a few league games as keeper. Not that either of those things prevents them being at each other's throats, and more often than not, other parts. It gets so bad that even the press notice, there's a photo of them after they beat the Bats and while the rest of the team are smiling and waving, he and Flint are trying to beat seven shades of it out of each other in the background.

The reporter from the Prophet asks Jones, one of their beaters who'd been in Ravenclaw a few years above them, about it, and her quote, which ended up emblazoned on the back page of the Prophet the next day was 'if you think this is bad, you should see them in practise.'  



End file.
